If Orihime's honest
with herself, she realizes that underneath the ever-present,
all-consuming terror that has her in its grip, there's some sort of
fascination.

She's only been here
a few days, and it's really not hard to remember the first time he
looked at her. And she doesn't think of it in terms of the first
time he looked at her, but more along the lines of the first time he
looked at her.

Aizen told her to fix
his arm, and she did. It wasn't like she could do anything but what
he told her. Oh, but how her whole being was repulsed at the idea.
Shivers went down her spine as she healed someone who was obviously
an enemy of Ichigo.

She had tried not to
look him in the eyes as she did so, but there was a brief instant
when her gaze met his. She couldn't even begin to fathom the look
on his face, and the expression in his too-distinct blue eyes stumped
her. And she was normally so good at reading people…

A chill traveled
through her, and he blinked when it happened. She knew then that he
had seen it, and she cursed herself for showing any signs of
weakness. She did so well hiding it, seeming stoic. Not that it made
too much of a difference; she felt all the time that they simply
sensed her fear, and she knew, deep down, that they liked it.

She didn't look him
in the face as she restored his arm, but she felt, in that small
amount of time, his eyes on her face. She focused on the warm golden
glow from her Souten Kisshun instead, trying to shake off the feeling
of his gaze, ignoring the shouts from the noisy one. She remembers
that his name was Luppi.

She remembers the look
on Luppi's face as he was killed. She remembers the itch in her
hands, the tingle in her heart that said to her go help him,
telling her to move, move, move! But she had to ignore it. She
couldn't help everyone, and she especially couldn't help those
who would gladly destroy her.

However, what really
stopped her was not the knowledge that this Arrancar, Luppi, would
have killed her with relish. What stopped her was her paralyzed
fixation on the one who was shouting his name and laughing like a
madman, the one who had the number six inked onto his lower back.

He calls himself
Grimmjow. Grimmjow Jaggerjack (though she heard the last part
elsewhere). This she knows like nothing else she's known before.
Orihime finds she can't resist the urge to taste the name, to say
it aloud, to roll it around on her tongue and sift it through the
crevices in her mouth, straining it through the spaces in her teeth.

The name (Grimmjow
Jaggerjack, Grimmjow Jaggerjack, Grimmjow Jaggerjack) is slick
and smooth and dark in her mouth. She's never been so fascinated
with any one phrase in her life, but it just seems to circle around
her brain like a dog chasing its tail. She whispers it quietly to
herself when she's wandering aimlessly through the halls, when
she's by herself. She likes the repetition of it.

And now he's
watching her, tracking her with his impossibly azure eyes. She can't
shake off his gaze, even when he's not watching her because
even when he's not watching her, he really is. Out of the
corners of his eyes, beneath the shadow of his brows. He's watching
her without watching her.

She can't say his
name as he watches, but it's still there in her mind, rolling and
ricocheting off the insides of her skull.

Somehow, Orihime feels
like he can hear his name in her thoughts. She feels that he can
sense it, that he's in tune to it and that he's watching her for
having the audacity to think his name.

And she's afraid.
More afraid than she's ever been in her whole life.

She finds it funny,
sometimes, when she's staring out at the moon in the sky that never
sets (she wonders if she'll ever see the sun again, repeating that
one name over and over) that she's more afraid of Grimmjow than she
is of Aizen. When she examines these feelings, there is a line
between what she feels for Aizen and what she feels for Grimmjow.
It's a thick, dark, angry line. She hates Aizen with every little
cell in her being. Hates him for hurting Kurosaki-kun, hates him for
taking her away from the people she loves, hates him for all his
horrible plans.

With Grimmjow, there
isn't any hate—rather, fear. Mind-numbing terror.

She notices that when
he watches her, sometimes the fingers of his left arm twitch
convulsively. A short jerk, and then it doesn't happen again, but
it's noticeable, mostly because she pays attention to things like
that. On a few occasions, she sees him scratching at it.

One day, she decides
she can't take it anymore. She needs to know. It's been bothering
her.

She passes him in the
hallway. Her hair flutters in the breeze he creates with his brisk
walk, and she stop, turns around, saying in a tremulous voice (for
Grimmjow is the only one that makes her visibly afraid):

"Is it working
properly?"

He stops, his back
still to her. She studies the edge of the number six peeking out from
underneath his jacket. The skin on his back is smooth, seamlessly
melting into the gaping hole in his abdomen.

"What the hell're
you talking about?" he replies, facing away from her.

"Your arm…you've
been scratching it." Even then, he is worrying at it, running his
nails along his wrist, flexing his digits. When she says it, he
freezes, stiffening visibly.

Orihime swallows
audibly. "S-…sorry. I…I mean…just…sorry." She whirls on
her heel, scurrying away as fast as she can, making her way through
the twisting halls to the relative sanctity of her room.

After that, it seems
like he never takes his eyes off of her. She grows used to the
feeling. A few days later, she starts to watch him in return. When
he's not there for her to stare at, she cradles his name in her
mouth, fascinated by the taste of it.

When her eyes
tentatively meet his, he doesn't look away. He holds them there,
intense. She is fascinated by the color of them, several shades of
blue melting together to form two pinpoints of strong azure.

She
is just as afraid as before, but she is used to that now—the
constant, pressing need to run, run, run until she can't get any
farther away from these people, these Arrancar, is starting to become
so routine that she doesn't even acknowledge it anymore.

He still scratches at
his arm.

Not too much time
afterwards, Orihime finds herself alone again. There are many, many
Arrancar, it seems, but they are always off in other places, and on
most occasions, she can find a quiet place to sit and stare at the
wall.

She is in another
twisting hallway that looks exactly the same as all the other
twisting hallways when her knees decide to defy her and she slumps
against the wall. It's been barely over a week since she arrived in
Las Noches, but the feeling of this place takes its toll on her
spirit. Somewhere, not too far away, giving her hope, she senses the
familiar spirit energy of her friends. She closes her eyes, pulling
her knees up and resting her forehead against them.

She doesn't even
hear him as he approaches. He's light on his feet and knows how to
handle his spirit energy to boot. She's not paying attention, too
focused on Ichigo's distant spirit pressure, trying to feel better
about her situation.

All those things
combined prevent her from noticing Grimmjow. Out of a habit that
she's developed in the short space of a week, she whispers quietly
to herself, savoring the way it tastes and feels, "Grimmjow
Jaggerjack, Grimmjow Jaggerjack, Grimmjow Jaggerjack…"

All these things
combined makes Orihime fail to notice his presence until he roughly
hauls her to her feet.

"What the hell are
you doing?" he snarls at her. His strangely sharp canine teeth
gleam in the light, distracting her. Frightened by his suddenness and
his brash approach, she can only summon enough strength to shake her
head in the face of his anger.

"Answer me, woman!"
he barks, causing her to flinch and gasp. Her breathing is coming in
short little puffs now, but she cannot take her eyes off of his. He
releases her, letting her crumple to the floor.

"Useless," he
growls, glaring past her and scratching furiously at his arm.

She speaks up, staring
at his hand as it traces up and down his arm, leaving small red welts
where his nails travel. "Does it itch?"

"What a stupid
question. No, it doesn't itch."

She frowned. "Then
why are you scratching at it?"

He gives her a look
like she's dumber than rocks. "Because I had an arm, then I
didn't have an arm, and now I do, and it's fuckin' weird. All
right?"

She nods.

"You still haven't
answered my damn question."

"I don't—" she
starts.

"My name. Why do you
keep sayin' my goddamn name? You do it all the time."

He has noticed.

Something in her
sparks. "Why do you watch me?" she asks quietly.

In a motion so fast
she doesn't even see it, he grabs her by the shoulders, picking her
so far up off the ground that her feet dangle. She doesn't
struggle, but stares him straight in the face, breathing hard.

His face is very close
to hers, too close for comfort. His eyes are burning into hers,
almost hurting her with their intensity.

It takes her a moment
to register the fact that the taste in her mouth is not his name, but
is actually him. He claims her mouth in a bruising, searing kiss that
leaves her no room to protest, almost no room to react. Against every
sensible part of her screaming at her in protest, she reciprocates.
She pushes back, tangling his tongue with her own, though she is no
match for the amount of force and presence that he exudes. The bone
fragment on his face presses uncomfortably against her jaw, but she
ignores it. He electrifies her, filling her with an energy she hasn't
felt since she first stepped foot in Las Noches.

He pulls away
suddenly, still holding her partially off the ground. Orihime sucks
on the inside of her bottom lip, where one of his sharp teeth pressed
too hard and drew blood. The coppery taste mixes with Grimmjow's
flavor in her mouth.

He hasn't looked
away from her once, and as he lets go of her, she is ready for it,
landing on her feet, if a bit unsteadily. He looks down at her,
frowning. She looks back, still sucking on her lower lip.

One corner of his
mouth quirks, though his eyes are still stormy. Despite it creating a
frightening visage, Orihime is not scared anymore. Just fascinated.

"Aizen says you're
some kinda god. You don't look like a god. Don't act like one."
He licks his lips, as if to imply she doesn't taste like one
either, then turns around and starts to walk away.

He throws one last
remark over his shoulder as he departs. "Stop sayin' my damn name
all the time, woman."